


Shameless

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Soul Eater, Soul Eater Not!
Genre: Classroom Sex, Established Relationship, Exhibitionism, Hand Jobs, M/M, No Plot/Plotless, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Semi-Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-01
Updated: 2017-01-01
Packaged: 2018-09-11 02:10:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8949685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: "Clay can’t keep his attention on class." Akane is a terrible distraction when Clay is trying to pay attention in class.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Shiny_Pichu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shiny_Pichu/gifts).



Clay can’t keep his mind on class.

It’s not his fault. He’s trying to pay attention, trying to keep his eyes forward and his focus pinned to the murmur of the professor’s voice droning over the history of magic weapons and the ancestry that runs the edge of metal cool and steady through Clay’s veins with every beat of his heart. It’s the kind of thing he finds most interesting, those parts of class that are more like a story than anything else, and without any of the stress of live demonstrations that come with hands-on practice. Left to his own devices Clay would be more than happy to settle into his seat in the back of class, safe from the too-close attention of either the professor or the other students, and let the story of his own history sink into his memory with the slow attention that always works best, when he’s trying to remember things. But this is a joint class, weapons and meisters attending together, and that means Clay is far from his own devices.

“You haven’t answered me,” Akane murmurs at Clay’s shoulder without lifting his head from the apparent notes he’s taking. Clay is sure the facade would pass for anyone viewing said ‘notes’ from anything more than a few feet away; unfortunately for him, he’s within range to see what Akane is writing, which comes closer to ever-more-graphic suggestions the longer Clay goes without responding to him. “Are you really that interested in the subject?”

“I’m trying to pay attention,” Clay mumbles, dragging his eyes away from the flow of Akane’s elegant handwriting and down to pin his gaze unseeingly against Professor Stein now gesturing to a line of text across the blackboard. “Otherwise I’ll have to go back and study this later tonight.”

“I can teach you,” Akane informs him without lifting his gaze from the page in front of him. “Remember last time? The flashcards were a _great_ idea.”

The flashcards were a _terrible_ idea. Clay can feel his whole face go hot just at the reminder of the stack of white cards that appeared precisely as innocuous as they were dangerous. All had gone well until Clay missed his fifth card, at which point Akane had decreed him up for a punishment game that consisted of Akane’s mouth venturing lower and lower on Clay’s body while Clay tried desperately to keep his attention on answering the questions Akane put to him between pressing his lips to Clay’s collarbone and hip and knee. They had only made it through half the cards before the study session had entirely dissolved into making out on the couch, and then somewhat more than making out in the bedroom, and worst of all Clay had taken the whole of his test with his face on fire from the memory of Akane’s supposed ‘help.’ He’s still sure he could have scored a full grade higher if left to himself.

“ _No_ ,” Clay hisses, fixing his expression into the closest thing to a scowl he can achieve while looking at Akane in profile. It’s difficult; Akane’s features are only more striking in silhouette. “You’re the worst teacher ever.”

“You’re being dramatic,” Akane says, his mouth tugging up at the corner in a way that somehow simultaneously dimples against the soft of his lower lip and sparkles bright behind the blue of his eyes. “Maybe it’s that you don’t take me seriously as your teacher. You could call me _sir_ , what do you think?”

“I am _not_ \--”

“Or I could call you sir,” Akane continues without missing a beat. “I wouldn’t mind.” He looks sideways at Clay from behind his glasses. “It sounds like fun.”

Clay huffs a heavy exhale as the best defense he can muster against the idea of Akane gazing up at him with _sir_ hot and purring over his lips in that voice he uses that always makes everything sound like sex itself. “It _doesn’t_ ,” he says. “It sounds like--”

“Mr. Sizemore” and Clay’s flinching as fast as he hears his name, his shoulders hunching in around his ears as he ducks his head against the first wave of self-consciousness that hits him. “Do you have something to say to the rest of the class?”

“No sir,” Clay mumbles without looking up.

“I see.” Stein turns his attention to Akane, freeing Clay from the weight of his stare for at least a moment. “What about you, Mr. Hoshi?”

“No, Professor,” Akane says in a significantly clearer tone. “Clay lost track of where we are in the textbook and I was trying to catch him up.”

“I see.” Professor Stein’s tone sounds less than convinced; Clay doesn’t dare lift his head to see if he’s the victim of the other’s steady stare. “Please do your best to keep it quieter in consideration of the other students.”

“Of course,” Akane says, still in that bright, honor-student tone. “My apologies, Professor.” Clay doesn’t say anything, and doesn’t lift his head until Stein has started speaking again; it’s only when he’s snuck a glance to confirm he’s no longer under scrutiny that he reaches to grab at Akane’s notebook and drag it away from him. He flips to a blank page, frustration running hot all through his veins; even Akane silently offering a pen to him doesn’t do anything to calm his stress.

 _Why do you always blame me_ , he scrawls, letting the words break outside the lines on the page rather than trying to restrain them to a reasonable size. _That was totally your fault_.

Akane reaches out to slide the pen from Clay’s hold and draws the notebook fractionally closer to himself as he leans in to write. _It was. Sorry about that, I wasn’t trying to get you in trouble._

 _You always do anyway_ , Clay writes back. _I’m always in trouble with you_.

 _I know_ , Akane writes, and Clay can almost hear the other’s soothing tone in the shape of the words on the page. _Here, you take notes, I won’t stop you_.

Clay gives Akane a skeptical look. Akane _never_ lets him off so easily, not once he’s worked Clay to the point of frustration he’s currently at; but Akane is sliding the notebook over the desk towards him, his eyes cast down and his mouth soft on surrender, and try though he might Clay can’t find any indication of insincerity in the other’s expression. He takes the notebook slowly, still squinting uncertainty at Akane next to him; but Akane is turning his head back up to gaze at the front of the room, his expression a picture of calm attention, and all Clay’s frowning rolls off him as if it isn’t even there. Finally Clay turns away, suspicion still prickling electric up his spine, and he fixes his attention back on the flat rhythm of Stein’s voice as he goes over the details of the lesson.

The peace lasts all of five minutes.

It’s just the right amount of time, Clay has to admit to himself. The first minute he’s ready to jump at the least motion of Akane next to him, his guard still hair-trigger sensitive; but Akane keeps watching the professor speak, even braces his elbow against the desk in front of him and leans forward to rest his chin against his hand. He looks utterly focused, as if he’s entirely forgotten about Clay sitting next to him, and after a few minutes Clay’s own focus finally eases away from Akane to center on the topic of the class instead. He struggles through his first few notes, his scattered attention refusing to clarify the major points for him to write down; but then he slides into the odd half-focus required by notetaking, his attention drifting away from his own self and into a state of complete attention to what Stein is saying and the words he’s writing down on the page. He tips in over the desk, his shoulders angling forward as he braces an arm against the notebook in front of him and copies out lines of information distilled from what the professor is saying, and he completely forgets about his partner next to him for the span of a handful of minutes.

He’s in the middle of a line when Akane’s hand brushes him.

It’s minor contact. They’re sitting close together as usual, with just a few inches of space between Akane’s hip and Clay’s; Akane letting his hand slide down to brace against the bench below them necessarily weights his knuckles against the outside of Clay’s thigh. There’s nothing particularly pointed about it, no real suggestion beyond the contact itself; but it’s still enough for Clay to freeze where he sits, enough to drag all his attention veering sideways to Akane next to him. He tips his head fractionally, feeling a frown starting on his lips as he looks sideways at the other; but Akane’s not looking at him, he still has that complete attention on the front of the room. His hand isn’t moving either; maybe he really is just shifting position, maybe the weight of his touch isn’t intended as the distraction it feels. Clay frowns harder, looks back down to his notes; and against his hip Akane’s hand shifts, sliding up off the bench to press flush against the outside of Clay’s thigh.

Clay freezes. He can feel the heat of Akane’s hand radiating through the fabric of his slacks, can feel the weight of the other’s touch like it’s all but glowing against his skin. He glances down, just barely, just enough to see the angle of Akane’s hand against his leg; and then sideways, up from under his lashes to fix the other with a silent glare. Akane doesn’t look at him, doesn’t so much as blink into self-consciousness under the weight of Clay’s attention, and against Clay’s thigh his fingers slide up and around to threaten at the inside seam of the other’s pants.

“ _Akane_ ,” Clay hisses, a shocked burst of sound at his lips as Akane’s fingers slide higher, closer, to the point of decency and then right over it without hesitating. Akane’s lashes flutter, his gaze slips sideways to Clay’s face; and then he lifts his chin from his hand, and raises a finger to his lips to shush Clay. Clay’s mouth falls open, he can feel disbelieving shock clear all across his face, and it’s while he’s still gaping at Akane that the other’s hand slides sideways to press close against the front of his pants.

Clay has to shut his mouth in a hurry to keep the whine of air in his throat from breaking into audible sound. He looks away at once, turning his attention out to the classroom as his cheeks heat to crimson as if painted over with the weight of Akane’s touch, and against his pants Akane presses harder, working his fingertips in against the seam as if to grind friction over the other’s skin. There’s intention behind his touch, an elegant self-assurance that purrs through Clay’s veins in spite of the burn of embarrassment struggling for dominance in him, and Clay can feel himself going harder in instinctive response to that contact, his body too well-trained to do anything other than respond to Akane’s touch as willingly as his weapon form does. He turns his head to look at the rest of the class, feeling his face go redder at the possibility that someone could be watching, that someone might _see_ ; but they’re in the very back row of the classroom, far along the curve of the bench running alongside the desks, and there’s no one close enough to be paying any attention to them, much less to see what Akane is doing under the shadow of the desk. Clay hunches closer anyway, tipping his body sideways in a half-formed attempt to block Akane’s hand from anyone else’s sight, and when he braces his fingers at the notebook in front of him it’s to flip back to the page of their back-and-forth, to hold the paper still with shaky fingers while he scrawls out a message the more forceful for the way the tension in his arm draws the letters trembling over the page.

 _What are you_ doing _?_

“Nothing,” Akane murmurs, so softly Clay can hardly hear his voice at all. His lips barely shift over the words. “Pay attention to class.” His fingers press closer against Clay’s pants, weighting to grind the texture of the fabric close against the other’s skin.

_That is not nothing!!_

“Class,” Akane tells him. “Or Stein will call us out again.” His palm presses closer, his wrist shifts to grind down against the rising heat inside Clay’s pants. “You don’t really want attention right now, do you?” Clay can feel his whole face burn to radiant scarlet, embarrassment flushing all his skin from his hairline down to the collar of his shirt, and next to him Akane’s mouth turns up at the corner, curving around a grin that says _that’s what I thought_ more clearly than words would.

Clay tightens his grip on the pen in his hand, fists his fingers around the edge of his notebook. _I hate you_ , he informs Akane via the drag of the pen across the paper. _I’m never sitting next to you in class again_.

Akane’s smile doesn’t flicker. If anything it tugs wider, skepticism clear across his expression without needing the clarity of words. His hand shifts, his palm presses close against Clay, and Clay has to shut his eyes for a moment, has to duck his head against the surge of heat that rushes through him. They’re in _class_ , in _public_ , and that idea should be enough all on its own to curb the rising tide of arousal in him; but Akane’s fingers are stroking against him with deliberate force, finding out a rhythm that Clay can feel flickering up his spine as if Akane’s touch is carrying the same Soul Force he uses on Clay’s weapon form, as if he’s found out a sort of Resonance he can use even with them both in wholly human bodies. Clay’s fully hard against Akane’s touch, now, he can feel the ache of desire thrumming through him with every beat of his heart; arousal is warring with rationality, purring suggestion that tempts even as Clay knows he should reject it.

 _Someone will see_ , he writes across the page in front of him. _Someone is going to notice_.

Akane shakes his head, very slightly, a barely-there motion Clay wouldn’t see if he weren’t looking for it. “Keep writing,” he says, shaping the words at his lips more than giving them voice; and then his fingers slide up, his thumb seeks out the edge of Clay’s waistband, and Clay ducks his head over the notebook again, feeling another rush of terrified self-consciousness as Akane’s fingertips work silently against the front of his pants. He can’t look up, he doesn’t dare, what if someone is looking, what if someone _sees_ ; but there’s no shout of the appalled judgment he’s more than half expecting, no one snaps his name with that edge that says he’s in more trouble than he can fathom. There’s just the sound of Professor Stein’s lecture continuing smoothly, uninterrupted, and at the front of his pants tension gives way as Akane’s fingers slide the zipper of Clay’s slacks down with silent care.

“Oh fuck,” Clay whispers without voice, forming the words on his lips as his skin prickles into self-consciousness, as all the heat in his body tries to simultaneously occupy the arch of his cheekbones and flood into resistance in his cock. With his head ducked down he can see Akane’s fingers in his periphery, can see the graceful shift of the other’s touch sliding inside his slacks, and then there’s contact against his skin, Akane’s touch dipping in and past the cover of Clay’s boxers to brush against his cock, and Clay has to let the edge of the notebook go so he can clap a hand over his mouth.

 _AKANE_ he writes, the words going to a scribble as the paper shifts under the drag of his pen.

“Tell me to stop,” Akane breathes. His fingers are sliding entirely inside Clay’s pants, his palm is curling closer against the other’s length; Clay has to shut his eyes for a moment for the surge of heat that runs up his spine to shudder over his shoulders. Akane’s thumb drags over him, pressing close against the soft resistance at the head of his cock. “If you want me to.” He slides his hand down, drawing friction against Clay’s length; Clay jerks with the heat of it, his hips bucking up in a half-formed attempt to plead for more.

The pen is in his hand, ink ready to spill onto the page; it would be easy to scrawl over the letters, he thinks Akane would stop with the first touch of pen to paper. Clay stares at the paper, at the white span of it awaiting his command; and he can’t put the pen down, can’t make the commitment of refusal.

“Look up,” Akane murmurs, still in that barely-there whisper that hardly shifts his lips. “Pretend to pay attention.” Clay lifts his head at once, the motion so guilty-fast that it gives him away more than anything else would; but no one’s looking at them, Stein is turned back towards the blackboard and everyone is looking forward instead of at them. Clay tips his head by an inch, just enough to cast a panicked glance over the other students along the back of the room; but the closest neighbor they have is asleep over his desk, and the next pair down are both so fixed on the teacher that Clay suspects they don’t even realize he and Akane are there. Clay’s tipped sideways, the shadow of his shoulders casting them into some measure of disguise; but Akane’s hand is still moving over him, the drag of it so clear he’s sure someone will know what’s happening as soon as they so much as glance at them.

“Eyes forward,” Akane orders, and Clay turns at once, his breathing whimpering in his throat as he does. He’s not hearing a word Stein is saying, not reading any of the text lining the chalkboard; all his attention is centering on the pull of Akane’s hand over him and the drawn-out friction of the other’s fingers sliding across his skin. His face is scarlet, his blush hasn’t faded; but he can feel his cheeks burning hotter still, can feel the tension across his shoulders tightening to match the knot forming low in his stomach, like it’s being pulled taut by Akane’s touch. Akane shifts his hand, presses his thumb in closer, and when he pulls back up Clay’s lashes flutter, his hips tip up and forward in helpless answer to the urging of the other’s fingers.

Akane’s hand tightens, his shoulder tips in against Clay’s. “Hold _still_ ” he hisses against the curve of the other’s ear, but he’s moving faster too, Clay can feel the effort of his action running through Akane’s arm pinned close against him. Clay’s eyes go wide, his fingers pressed close against his mouth tighten; he can hear the way his breathing catches in his chest, can feel the pressure of anticipation building higher in him with every drag of Akane’s hand. They’re in the middle of their classroom, surrounded by other students and with their professor lecturing at the front of the room; and if Clay tips his head down he can watch Akane’s hand sliding up over his cock, can see the slick heat of arousal spilling damp over him in answer to the other’s touch.

“Look up,” Akane says, almost in Clay’s ear, and Clay lifts his chin again, blinking hard at the room even as he sees nothing at all of what’s before him. His breathing is speeding, his heart racing in his chest; he’s sure if anyone looks up at him it’ll be perfectly clear what’s going on, even with the motion of Akane’s hand hidden under the edge of the desk. It must be obvious in his flushed cheeks, in his fast breathing, in the tension of his fingers over his mouth; and then Akane’s hold tightens against him, Akane starts to move through fast, unhesitating strokes, and Clay’s eyes go wide, his head tilts back and up so he’s staring at the edge of the ceiling instead of down at the front of the room. The sound in the room fades out to unimportance, his vision hazes out-of-focus as he sucks in a sharp breath past the barrier of his hand; and Akane’s thumb presses against him, and Clay’s hips jerk, and he comes in a shuddering spill over Akane’s fingers. He’s trembling with the heat running through him, his cock pulsing to relief in Akane’s grip, and for a moment Clay ducks his head to shadow to have a chance to collect himself.

Akane takes care of the cleanup. Clay is as good as useless for the first few minutes; all he can manage to do is stare blankly at the open notebook in front of him, waiting for his heartrate to slow and his breathing to ease while Akane fusses with his clothes and the mess at his skin. By the time Clay has composed himself enough to look down Akane is pulling his zipper back up and tucking a sticky handkerchief away in his pocket, glancing consideringly at his hand before he brings it back up to set against the table with as much casual unconcern as if he’s been paying attention to class the whole time. Clay feels himself flush again, secondhand embarrassment burning over his cheeks on behalf of his shameless meister; but when he risks a glance around the room no one is looking at them, there’s no trace of the shocked attention he was so afraid of seeing. There’s just boredom and half-thought focus on the lesson, the same as there always is, and when Clay looks back to Akane the other looks just the same, at least from any distance at all. Clay can see the tension straining at the front of the other’s pants from his angle, and because he’s looking for it; but Akane makes no move to satisfy himself for the moment, for which Clay is more grateful than otherwise. He turns back to the front of the classroom, his imagination wandering over what he can offer Akane to make up for the wait once they make it back to the privacy of their apartment, and he’s still turning the idea over in the back of his head when the chime of the bell signals the end of class and release from their current situation. Clay is slow about packing up his things, his movements delayed by the rising anticipation of what he’ll do for Akane when they get home, and by the time he’s lifting his bag onto his shoulder so he can follow Akane out of the aisle and down to the front of the room they’re the last students left to leave the classroom.

Professor Stein doesn’t look up as they approach. He has his head down over the notes in front of him, his attention apparently completely given over to the page before him; it’s only as Clay and Akane are stepping past his desk that he clears his throat to break the quiet of the room.

“Mr. Hoshi,” he says, his tone stark with clarity against the echoing empty of the classroom around them. “I don’t want to know what precisely you were doing to make Mr. Sizemore blush like that in the middle of my class.” He lifts a hand from the book in front of him and reaches to twist the screw running through his head; it _clicks_ into place with a sound that Clay can feel run straight down his spine like it’s freezing him to the floor. “If you do anything of the sort again I won’t hesitate to call you both up in front of the classroom to explain why you can’t keep your hands to yourself for the duration of my class.” He looks up over the top of his glasses without raising his head, his eyes dark with unstated threat. “Are we clear?”

Clay thinks he’s going to melt away where he stands from pure, unadulterated embarrassment. He ducks his head in immediate surrender, nodding as fast as he can before fixing his gaze on the floor rather than meeting Stein’s steady gaze. At his side there’s a longer pause, a moment of hesitation; then “Yes, sir,” with as much cool self-composure as if Akane feels no trace of the guilty conscience flaring crimson over Clay’s face. “I’ll be sure to conduct any tutoring sessions in private in the future.”

“Fine,” Stein says. There’s another _click_. Clay flinches as if it’s the sound of a gun cocking. “You might want to start by teaching your weapon partner to lie as easily as you do. He’s going to give you away before you begin if he can’t compose his expression better than that.”

“Thank you for the advice,” Akane says, as absolutely calm as if they’re speaking of the actual lesson itself. “I’ll be sure to start with that.”

“Yeah.” Stein sounds distracted, like he’s already dismissed them from his attention. “Get out of here, I’ve got a meeting with Death Scythe to go to.”

“Of course,” Akane says. “Come on, Clay” and his fingers are closing around Clay’s wrist, his touch pulling hard enough to urge the other’s frozen feet to stumble forward. Akane tugs them across the classroom and out the doorway; it’s only when they’re halfway down the hallway that Clay recovers himself enough to walk forward of his own accord, and another several seconds after that before he dares lift his head to glance at Akane. The other is walking with absolute confidence, pacing out the length of the corridor without hesitation in his stride; there’s only the very faintest tinge of a flush across his cheeks, only the slightest tremor of tension at the set of his mouth.

“Oh my god,” Clay groans in the closest thing to a whisper he can manage. “I can’t _believe_ you did that.”

Akane glances at him sideways, his mouth tightening like he’s fighting back some reaction. “Yeah,” he says, and then his smile breaks free, a grin spilling across his whole face to sparkling bright behind his eyes. “Me neither.” His laughter is infectious, even with Clay’s face still burning with embarrassment; or maybe it’s the tension of self-consciousness that makes his laughter come so easy, maybe it’s the relief running through him that lets amusement spill so readily from his lips.

Akane is absolutely shameless, and Clay wouldn’t have him any other way.


End file.
